


Our World Is Topsy-Turvy

by Cerusee



Series: Dolce Vita [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Gen, UNTIL THE TEARS FLOW, at times anyway, robin!jason, someone has a big crush on Jane Seymour (spoilers it's bruce), this is a happy story about happy people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 03:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11072835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerusee/pseuds/Cerusee
Summary: Jason and Bruce watchThe Scarlet Pimpernelone rainy Saturday afternoon.  It's a happy story, until it isn't.





	1. They seek him here, they seek him there

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to audreycritter for all her support and her help in workshopping this story, especially the seventeen zillion hours she spent working out with me arcane details of Jason and Bruce sitting down to watch the specific made-for-TV movie from 1982 that I absolutely insisted on using. (Also for validating my aesthetic appreciation of Jane Seymour's bone structure, which in all honesty is why I was so attached to it in the first place.)

Bruce glanced out the window at the heavy downpour and grimaced as he pulled a raincoat on over his suit and prepared to spend the next several hours hunched over an acquisitions deal. _What a way to spend a Saturday._

“Happy news, sir." 

Bruce struggled to suppress a flinch as Alfred, who was supposed to be bringing the car around the front of the Manor, unexpectedly appeared behind him. "Your secretary called a few minutes ago and informed me that the meeting with the lawyers has been postponed until Tuesday.”

Bruce brightened instantly. “Oh, that is good news." He started to shuck off his raincoat. "I think I hear a cold case downstairs calling my name.”

“If I might, sir, there’s a live wire upstairs doing the same," Alfred said, accepting Bruce's coat and folding it over his arm. "You and young Master Jason haven’t spent much time together of late. Aside from your patrolling duties, that is.”

“Hmm," Bruce said. "You know, you're right. Between his after-school activities and all the extra time I’ve been putting in at Wayne Enterprises, I'd swear it’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Jay’s face without a domino on it.” 

"I'd suggest something indoors, since it's rather dreadful outdoors today.” Alfred moved to the closet to put away the coat. “I recall a mention in the Weekend section of the Gazette about a Jane Seymour marathon on CBS." He arched a knowing eyebrow at Bruce.

Color certainly did not sweep up Bruce's cheeks, and he certainly did not suppress a chuckle. "There's a thought," he said. He pulled his phone out of the pocket of his slacks to call up the local listings. His eyes landed on a particular title and he made a noise of frustration. “ _That_ would have been perfect, if it hadn’t aired last night."

Alfred peered over his arm at the screen. "Oh, I see, yes. Actually, Master Bruce, we happen to have a copy on hand."

"We do? Why?"

"Several years ago, Master Dick accidentally destroyed a whole _rack_ of VHS tapes of classic films with an ill-placed backflip. He felt terrible about it, so he replaced them with DVDs he found using the eBay site. I'm afraid he got the dates mixed up on that title."

"That's all right, I like that version." Bruce shook his head at the memory of the havoc Dick's childhood excesses had wreaked on the Manor. “Is it safe to assume it was _my_ credit card used to acquire the replacements?"

"It's the thought that counts, sir."

***

“Jay-lad,” Bruce called up the stairs.

Bruce could hear Jason scrambling out of his room. His face appeared over the banister. “Hey Bruce, what’s up?”

“Would you happen to be free this afternoon?”

“Just finished my history paper, so yes, actually.” Jason shrugged one shoulder. “Why?”

Bruce waved a DVD up at Jason. “Alfred pointed out to me that we haven’t had much Bruce-and-Jason time recently, and my schedule’s just cleared up for the day. How’d you like to watch a movie with me?”

“Long as there’s snacks, sure.” Jason grinned, hopping onto the bannister and sliding down towards him. Bruce plucked him off it before he reached the bottom, and placed him on his feet.

“Scoot over to the kitchen and let Alfred know we’ll need popcorn and drinks. I’ll get us set up in the theater.”

“Got it, boss.”

***

Alfred entered the home theater several minutes later, carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Jason trailed after him, with an enormous bowl of popcorn clutched in his arms. The scent of butter wafted over to Bruce.

“So, what are we watching?” Jason asked, setting the bowl onto the table between the couch and a recliner.

“ _The Scarlet Pimpernel_.” Bruce thumbed the Blu-ray player closed and picked up the remote to navigate the DVD menu. “I watched this on TV when I was a kid. It’s a lot of fun. Danger, dashing adventure, romance…”

Jason wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

“You’ll change your tune in a couple of years.”

“As if.” Jason flicked his hand dismissively. He curled up on the couch, pulling the popcorn bowl into his lap. Bruce sat down next to him as Jason crammed a huge fistful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Don’t forget to breathe, chum.”

Jason swallowed—with visible effort—an entire mouthful of half-chewed popcorn. “Breathing popcorn sounds like a great way to choke to death,” he said as soon as his mouth was clear. Bruce was reasonably sure the only reason he hadn’t just spoken with his mouth full was that Alfred was still in the room, pouring lemonade into glasses.

“I know the Heimlich maneuver." Bruce said, as he reached for the bowl.

Jason smiled impishly at Bruce and held the popcorn off to the side, just out of Bruce’s reach. 

“Nice try,” Bruce tutted him as he leaned his shoulder into Jason's, reaching over Jason towards the bowl. Jason scooted up onto the arm of the couch to evade him, then clambered up the side until he was standing on the back of the couch, holding the bowl high above Bruce’s head.

“Who’s the tallest now?” Jason taunted him.

“No feet on the furniture, Master Jason,” Alfred called, although how he knew, Bruce had no earthly idea, since Alfred had by that point left the room.

“I’m wearing socks!” Jason shouted after him.

Bruce laughed. “Are we watching a movie or playing keepaway?”

“Both, obviously.” But Jason relented, and plopped back down into his seat, offering Bruce the bowl of popcorn at last. Bruce slung one arm over Jason's shoulders and pulled him towards him, taking a handful with his free hand, and munching on it somewhat more slowly than Jason. 

He thumbed the play button, and the speakers began to intone a lugubrious monologue about the horrors of _le Guillotine._

"Dramatic much?" Jason said, dubiously.

Bruce leaned his head against Jason's and said, "The guillotine was actually developed as a method of humane execution. It killed quickly and cleanly, causing far less suffering for the victim than traditional beheading by axe or sword, which often took multiple blows, especially at the hands of an incompetent executioner. But its rampant use turned it—and the name of its creator, Joseph-Ignace Guillotin—into a symbol of fear."

Jason crooked his head up to stare Bruce, eyebrows up to his bangs. "Are we watching a movie or having a history lesson?"

Bruce smiled. "Both. Obviously."

Jason huffed out a laugh.

"So what was the history paper about?"

"The Industrial Revolution."

"The whole thing?"

"Mechanized British textile production methods, you nosy nancy."

Bruce ruffled Jason's hair. "Want me to proofread it for you?"

"Sure. Alfie already said he would, but—sure." Jason looked pleased by Bruce's interest, and Bruce was glad he offered, although he doubted even Jason could make mechanized British textile production methods interesting.

Jason's attention was abruptly diverted back to the screen. "What kind of movie is this really? That guy just ripped his own nose off."

"It was a fake nose, kiddo."

“ _Obviously_ ,” Jason said, as if he'd never doubted it. "And there go his eyebrows. Cheap."

Alfred re-entered the room with a basket of laundry in his arms. He perched on the edge of the recliner, shaking out a pillowcase.

From the screen, Sir Percy, now out of costume, pronounced in his most affected voice, _“The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet.”_

“Oh my _God_ ,” Jason said, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.

Bruce quashed a childish impulse to mouth along with the words of the poem. _“They seek him here...they seek him there...those frenchies seek him everywhere…”_

***

“ _I call upon you now...revenge my wrongs! Your favors will be measured by your rage.”_

"Whoa." Jason's eyes went as wide as saucers and he sat up straight as Marguerite St. Just appeared on screen for the first time in all her radiant stage glory. “She’s...wow, she's _pretty_.”

Bruce laughed. "Good eye. That's Jane Seymour as Marguerite. One of the most beautiful actresses of her generation. I confess, I had a bit of a crush on her when I was younger." 

Alfred, folding hand towels, let out a discreet cough.

"Just when you were a kid, huh?" Jason waggled his eyebrows at Bruce. But as Marguerite exclaimed about her _poor Armand_ , Jason turned back to watch her, sparing Bruce from further teasing.

***

_"Paul!"_ Marguerite cried out on the screen, reaching towards him.

"Waitasec. Bruce, that's Gandalf!" Jason exclaimed, pointing at the screen.

"It's Ian McKellen, chum."

"That's _Gandalf_ ," Jason insisted.

“The character’s name is Paul Chauvelin.”

“Gandalf.”

Bruce sighed, while Chauvelin bragged to a wide-eyed Marguerite of twenty-three scheduled executions.

"Gandalf's a real dick, huh."

“Language. But yes, Chauvelin is a jerk."

***

"He's a poet and didn't know it, are you _kidding_ me," Jason groused. "You know, Percy's dipshit act reminds me of you."

“Thanks,” Bruce said dryly. “Language, please.”

“Fine, dip _stick_. Not _you_ -you, you at those big fancy parties, where you’re pretending to be an idiot. It’s the exact same act. 'This _limp cravat_ , sir,'" Jason quoted Percy mockingly. "You see, I'm a bit of an—"

Bruce rapped his knuckles on the table.

"A total jerkhole poet," Jason finished.

 

"Using a picnic basket to sneak out a victim…huh." Jason folded his arms. "Not bad. Smart, actually."

A few moments later, Percy distracted Marguerite with a passionate kiss, while the Pimpernel's allies whisked the rescue victim out of sight.

Jason hooted dismissively. “Didn’t Selina do something like that to you, once?”

Bruce sighed deeply. “If only it were just the _once_ …”

***

Somewhere around Percy and Marguerite's wedding, Jason's chatterbox commentary dropped off in favor of a deeper, quieter engagement with the film. Not a silent one: he sucked in his breath at Marguerite's lace-and flower wedding crown, snarled at Chauvelin for framing Marguerite with the fatal denunciation of St. Cyr, and made a wounded noise when Percy mournfully declared to Lord Anthony he would never be able to trust his new bride, and she could never know why. During the secret library rendezvous, Bruce heard Jason hiss "turn around, _turn around_ " at Marguerite under his breath, fingers so tightly clutched on the rim of the long-emptied popcorn bowl his knuckles went white. (Bruce thought about the way Jason had scoffed earlier at the prospect of romance and bit back a chuckle.) Jason didn't speak again until the climactic fencing duel, and then only to tug on Bruce's arm and ask, "Do you know how to fight like that? Can you teach me?"

"I do, but it's not a mission-priority skill for Robin," Bruce told him. "The only place people do épée fencing these days is on movie sets or for sport." He made a mental note to ask Alfred to keep an eye out for a repertory screening of _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ ; if he liked this, the kid was going to go bananas for Errol Flynn. And maybe sign Jason up for private fencing lessons—or would he prefer the Y? As if Jason wasn't busy enough already…

As the closing credits rolled, Jason sighed and slumped against Bruce's shoulder. "That's the best movie I ever saw.”

"The best movie I’ve ever _seen_ ,” Bruce corrected him. "I've always been fond of it. The 1934 version is excellent as well, but Jane Seymour in her prime is nothing to sneeze at."

"Plus this one has Gandalf." 

Bruce rolled his eyes fondly.

Jason toyed idly with the fabric of Bruce's shirtsleeve. “Percy…the Pimpernel's a lot like Batman, right? He has a secret identity, and he's always trying to save people."

"I suppose that was part of the appeal, even before I created Batman. But it's also one of the great adventure stories."

"So there's....more like this?"

"Plenty. I don’t know what other film adaptations we have on hand, but we have just about everything in the library. We can pick some out for you after dinner, if you'd like."

"Fu—dge yeah!" Jason exclaimed, barely catching himself in time. "I mean, yes please. Thanks, Bruce.”

***

The henchman crept through the alley, gun held loosely in front of him. "Where'd you go, you little brat..."

Somewhere above him, a muffled laugh escaped the shadows, followed by a dramatic whispered recitation: "Is he in Heaven? Is he in Hell? That damned, elusive—” A small, colorful figure dropped straight down, legs locking around the gunman's throat as his gun was knocked forcefully from his hand. “— _Robin-el_!"

The henchman cursed Robin loudly as his arms were wrestled behind his back and secured with zip-ties.

Batman swept down the alley mere seconds later, snagging the discarded gun from the ground and popping the magazine. “Good job, Robin-el," he said, straight-faced. "This is the last of them."

“Thanks, Batman!”

“But watch your language."

"It was a literary quotation, B.”

"Hnh."

“‘Better to reign in Heck than serve in Heaven’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Batman’s mouth twitched in what only a Robin would recognize as a suppressed smile, while the bound henchman stared up at Robin in mild disbelief.

_“‘From Heck’s heart, I stab at thee!’”_ Robin proclaimed, punching his forearm into the air.

“For fuck's sake,” the henchman grumbled from the pavement.

“You heard Batman, watch your language, buddy,” Robin said, prodding him in the ribs with one pixie-booted foot. "Otherwise we'll have to rat you out to the Commish. There's still an ordinance against public swearing, isn't there, Batman?"

"Please, _please_ just arrest me already."

Batman had to turn to the side to conceal the smile that he could no longer hold back.

***

"How are you and Bruce doing these days?" Dick's voice was slightly tinny over the phone. He emphasized _Bruce_ meaningfully. "He's not neglecting you, is he?"

"Nah," Jason said. "We watched a movie the other day. _The Scarlet Pimpernel_. It was really great."

Jason could hear pots and pans banging; it sounded like Dick was messing around in his kitchen. "Oh, is that the one with Jane Seymour?" Dick asked.

"Yeah, did you guys watch it, too?" Jason felt a sudden stab of jealousy at the thought.

Dick chuckled. Jason heard what he thought was the faintest hiss of water sizzling off a burner. "Nope. I don't know if Alfred told you this—God knows, Bruce never will—but he met her at a party once. So did I, actually. It was at a film premiere in Gotham when I was younger. I'm telling you, it was unreal—he blushed and he actually _stammered_. He tried to pass it off to me later as part of his silly socialite act, but I could tell he was genuinely flustered—shit! shit! shit!—"

Even though the phone, the ear-splitting sound of a smoke alarm made Jason wince. He pulled the phone away from his ear, but he still heard the phone clatter onto the counter as Dick abruptly dropped it.

Several minutes later, alarm finally silenced, Dick picked the phone back up, sounding extremely out of breath. "Are you still there?...never mind. Do not tell Alfred, okay?"

Jason snickered. "I won't if you tell me about Bruce's stupid crush."

Dick sighed. "I couldn't wrap my head around it until Alfred explained about him watching that movie when he was a kid. Apparently he’s just...really into her. Congrats, you got to the source of it."

"Wow." Jason found himself grinning broadly at the thought of the big, bad Batman getting tongue-tied over a pretty actress. (Even if she was _very_ pretty.)

"I know, right? Feel free to hold that over his head, by the way."

"Gotta keep him in line somehow, I guess."

"That's Robin's job," Dick said. It sounded to Jason like he was smiling. "One of them, anyway."

"Yeah," Jason agreed, warmth flooding his chest. "Robin's job."


	2. Is he in Heaven?  Is he in Hell?

Jason was moping, and Bruce had no idea why.

He might have thought it was the holidays. Bruce and Alfred had found out through painful error that the abundance of Thanksgiving and Christmas was overwhelming for Jason. But they’d gotten through this year without serious incident, and Jason had cheered up around New Year’s. 

If it had been Dick, Bruce would have blamed it on the beginning of the spring semester—intelligent as he was, Dick had often chafed at the structured routine of classes—but Jason loved school. He’d spent winter break reading ahead in English, and Bruce had been led, over two voluble dinner conversations, to understand that Jason was _extremely_ excited to discuss “The Gift of the Magi” with his teacher.

And yet, the moping.

Bruce had gone through Jason’s file again, wondering if he’d forgotten a crucial anniversary—a birthday, a death date, anything significant—and found nothing. Nobody close to Jason had been born or died or disappeared in January. No one that Bruce knew of, anyway; no one that Jason had ever admitted to knowing.

Could it be a girl...or a boy? Jason was a little young—but he’d asked Alfred anyway, and even gritted his teeth and called Dick, after Alfred shrugged his shoulders. Dick denied any knowledge of Jason’s crushes.

He’d stooped to asking outright (he _was_ the World’s Greatest Detective; he left no avenue of investigation unexplored), but Jason insisted he was fine, _don’t be such a big worrywart, Bruce._

Nothing. One moping child, and not a clue. 

***

Jason laid down on his side, staring at the stack of books on the bedside table: _Kidnapped, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers, Jane Eyre, Ivanhoe._ Books Bruce had picked out for him from his own library last fall. Jason had been busy with school and, well _everything else_ , but he’d finished _The Moonstone_ and gotten halfway through _Treasure Island_ over Christmas break. 

He didn’t want to read any of them any more. He didn’t want to read _Anne of Green Gables_ , stuffed into his backpack, even though Anju, the school librarian, promised him he’d love it. He didn’t want to read anything. 

What was the point? It was all _lies._

***

Bruce had acquired it not long after the new year. If he’d gotten his hands on it a little earlier, it would have made a perfect Christmas gift, but—well. He hadn’t wanted to give it to Jason right away, respectful of Jason’s discomfort with too much generosity at once. He figured he could hold onto it until August, and make it into a birthday present. But it had been weeks since Christmas, and August was so far away, and Jason was so downcast… _What the hell_ , Bruce thought. Why not try to cheer him up? He knew Jason would love it. 

“What’s this?” Jason asked, feeling a mix of anticipation and suspicion. It wasn’t his birthday, Christmas was over—why the gift? He turned over the package, running his fingers along the zig-zag lines of the green-and-gold striped wrapping paper (clearly Alfred’s work). It was hard, flat, and rectangular, with a spine on one edge. A book. Duh. 

Bruce smiled encouragingly at him. “It was supposed to be a birthday present. I know it’s a little early, Jay, but...I knew how much you’d like this, and I didn’t want to wait.” 

Jason slid his finger under the tape at one end, and eased the book out of its paper. 

_The Scarlet Pimpernel_ , it read. _Baroness Orczy_. He opened the cover and looked for the copyright page. It didn’t have one. 

“It’s a first edition,” Bruce said, a tinge of pride in his voice. “Alfred and I have collected them for years. It’s over a century old.” 

Jason stared at the book. He swallowed, and looked up at Bruce. “I don’t want it.” He tried to push it back into Bruce’s hands, but Bruce just blinked at him. “I don’t want it!” 

“Jay,” Bruce said. “I’m sorry, I know I should have waited. I knew it was too soon after Christmas. But it’s all right. It’s yours to keep, I promise.” 

Jason’s gorge was rising, and he thrust the book at Bruce with increased vehemence. “ _I don’t want it!_ ” he said again. When Bruce didn’t take the book back, Jason turned and hurled it across the room like a discus. It hit the wall hard, and Jason thought he heard a cracking sound as it fell onto the floor. 

“ _Jason Todd_ ,” Bruce growled, anger flaring in his voice. “That is _not_ how we treat books in this house. _Especially not_ rare, expensive, first editions!” 

Jason, uncowed, hollered back at him, “I SAID I DIDN’T WANT IT.” He could feel tears pricking his eyes. “It’s a stupid _lie_.” 

Bruce had already started to crouch to retrieve the book, but at Jason’s cry, he turned back towards him. “Jason,” he said, uncomfortably. “It’s just a book. It’s a work of fiction. I know that you know that. Don’t you?” He started to set a hand on Jason’s arm. 

Jason wriggled away and shook his head violently. “You don’t...it’s a lie. It’s all lies. It’s...it’s—” he tried to hold back a sob and failed. 

Bruce abandoned his effort to rescue the book and turned his full attention to Jason. “Jason. Son. Can you sit down for me? Please?” 

Jason hurled himself into an armchair, but kept his head turned away from Bruce. Bruce knelt in front of the chair and rested one hand on Jason’s knee. 

“Jason, something’s clearly been bothering you for awhile,” he said. “It would mean a lot to me if you could tell me what it is.” 

Jason’s lip trembled, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “In the movie, all the nobles Percy and the others were smuggling out were innocent victims, and the revolutionaries and the council were bad guys. We were supposed to _root_ for Percy’s guys.” He took a deep breath. “We started studying the French Revolution in history this semester.” Jason risked a look at Bruce’s face, but Bruce still didn’t seem to understand. “Don’t you get it, Bruce? In real life, those aristocrats were _assholes_.” 

Bruce’s lip twitched. “Well, there’s something to be said for that,” he said, with a hint of humor. 

“It’s not funny, Bruce!” Jason said, feeling sick. “Things were _awful_ in France before the Revolution! The aristocrats were rolling around in luxury, and the peasants had _nothing_. The farmers couldn’t even keep all the food they grew because they had to give up so much of it as taxes. And then the crops failed two years in a row, and the upper classes were all hanging around Versailles wearing silk and lace and eating fancy food, while everywhere else, people were _starving to death_!” Jason’s voice had gotten louder and faster as he spoke, and his final sentence ended on a shout. 

Jason could practically hear the _click_ in Bruce’s head as his face softened. 

Jason hated it. He hated himself for giving so much away. He hadn’t meant to say that, he hadn’t meant to shout. He felt exposed and raw and nauseous. Only Bruce’s hand on his knee stopped him from bolting from the room. 

He struggled to hold onto to his anger. Bruce’s pity burned him like acid. “The story makes you feel sorry for all those poor stupid jerkhole nobles getting their heads cut off, but maybe they had it coming, okay? Maybe they deserved it. Because everything was _their fault_.” 

“Jason,” Bruce said, helplessly. He squeezed Jason’s knee gently. “I’m sorry. I should have realized. Of course you...you would see things a little differently than I did when I was your age.” 

“This isn’t okay,” Jason said. The anger was gone, he’d lost it. He felt it drain away, leaving nothing but misery in its wake. “It’s not fair. For me to be here, and to have all this, when there are so many kids still out there on the streets, hungry and cold.” He could feel a streak of wetness on his cheeks and he realized he was crying. “I don’t think it’s fair for you to have all this, either.” 

Bruce cupped Jason’s face with both hands, brushing tears aside. He pulled Jason into a hug, and Jason let himself be pulled, burying his face in Bruce’s shoulder and giving in to the need to sob wholeheartedly. Bruce picked Jason up and carried him over to the sofa. 

Bruce let Jason cry for a few minutes, rubbing his back. 

“It’s true, it’s not fair,” he said eventually, in a soothing tone, chin tucked against the top of Jason’s head. “Life isn’t fair at all. I’m not saying that to excuse any of this...inequality. Saying life isn’t fair doesn’t abdicate us of the responsibility of trying to make things better. And I am trying to make things better. Not just as Batman, but by using my family’s wealth to help as many people as possible. You know Wayne Enterprises sponsors a lot of charities and causes, right? Including programs designed to help needy kids?” He pulled Jason back a little so he could see his face. 

Jason nodded, miserably. 

“I know it’s still not enough. It never can be. We live in a very unequal society. And I know that, but sometimes I forget...no, I know I’ll never _know_ what it was like for you before. I _have_ been hungry, and I’ve been cold at times—I had a lot of hardships when I was training to become Batman—but I was a lot older than you to begin with, and I always knew I could make all that go away in an instant if I wanted to. So I’m sorry for forgetting how different your experiences have been, and how they’d make you feel about something like this.” He squeezed Jason more tightly, and Jason let his head fall back onto Bruce’s chest. “Thank you for reminding me. It’s something I should always remember, as Batman, and as Bruce Wayne.” 

Jason sniffled into his chest. “I still feel shitty about having all this stuff. Even though I don’t ever, _ever_ want to go back to the way things were before. I don’t ever want to leave the Manor, or you. I just feel guilty about wanting to stay.” 

“There’s something called _survivor’s guilt_ ,” Bruce told him. “It’s the feeling that you’ve done something bad by surviving a bad situation when someone else didn’t. It’s natural, but it’s not rational.” He stroked Jason’s hair. “If it helps any—remember that it’s a good thing for other kids like you, people coming from the same rough circumstances as you, if you’re here, reminding me every day not to forget about them.” He grasped Jason’s chin and twisted his face to look him directly in the eyes. “Although don’t you think for one second that’s _why_ you’re here, do you hear me? You’re my son, and I love you, and _that’s_ why you’re here.” 

“I just got lucky, huh?” Jason said. He felt something warm and wonderful spark in his heart. 

“We both got lucky,” Bruce said. “Sometimes I think we’re the luckiest people in the world.” 

Jason sighed long and deep. “You know what the worst part is?” he said to Bruce. “It’s still a _really great movie_.” 

Bruce chuckled. “It is.” 

“The way Percy _looks_ at Marguerite. And that sword fight was amazingly cool.” 

“It sure was, champ.” 

Jason tugged on Bruce’s shirt. “I’m sorry I threw the book across the room. It was probably really expensive, wasn’t it.” 

“Don’t throw any more books at the wall,” Bruce said, with a hint of sternness in his tone. “But under the circumstances, I think we can let this one slide.” He paused. “I can get rid of it, if you’d like.” 

“No,” Jason said, without even thinking about it. He tried to try to work out why, but all he could find was the feeling that said to take the book after all. “I want to keep it. If it’s not ruined. I don’t want to read it right now, but I do want to keep it.” 

“Even if it is damaged, I can have someone take a look and repair it.” 

“Hmm,” Jason said. He carefully climbed off Bruce’s lap, and went over to the wall where the book lay. “I don’t think it’s too bad?” He came back over to the sofa, holding it up for Bruce’s approval. The corner of the back cover was bent, but otherwise, the book seemed to have miraculously survived its ordeal. 

Bruce inspected it. “I think it will live,” he said, gravely. 

Jason grinned. “ _Lambkins, we shall live_.” 

“Don’t tell me they’re teaching _Henry V_ in the 8th grade now.” 

“Alfred is teaching it in cooking class,” Jason said. “Speaking of classes…” He fidgeted. 

“Yes?” 

“I looked it up and they have fencing classes at the YMCA. I was thinking maybe I could sign up for one?” 

Bruce smiled. “I think you have enough on your plate right now, between school and Robin and all your extracurriculars, but that would be a fine summer activity.” 

Jason decided to push his luck. “Can I have my own sword?” 

Bruce blinked. After a beat, he said “Why not. Actually, I’m pretty sure Alfred has my old épées stored up in the attic. Why don’t we see if we can find you one there?” 

Jason ducked his head, trying to hide the smile that split his face at the idea of Bruce giving him a sword he’d used himself. “Cool,” he said. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day after all. 


End file.
